


I have been one acquainted with the night

by Neurotoxia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, BDSM, Bloodplay, Cocaine, Codependency, Dubious Consent, Eton, Hand Jobs, Knifeplay, Luxembourg, M/M, Oral Sex, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Canon, Relapse, Riding Crops, Self-Harm, Stream of Consciousness, Substance Abuse, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 04:18:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neurotoxia/pseuds/Neurotoxia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock leaps from one addiction to the next, always circling back to one until it almost kills him. Staying sober isn’t easy and when he can’t have his new addiction John Watson anymore, his old vice is lurking in the shadows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I have been one acquainted with the night

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Summer Holmestice 2013 and my recipient was [Venturous1](http://venturous1.livejournal.com/) , who gave me great prompts to work with. Finishing this wouldn't have been possible without [Penombrelilas](http://penombrelilas.livejournal.com/) , who didn't complain about my whining, offered endless advice and handholding and whacked me around the head when I was writing stupid things. More thanks go to [Swissmarg](http://swissmarg.livejournal.com/) for overhauling grammar and spelling in this monster. And last but not least thanks to [Sherlocked01](http://sherlocked01.tumblr.com/) for the cross-check :)
> 
> Since Holmestice, I have added an extra scene with Mrs Hudson, because I felt that Sherlock's past and present needed more of a transition. And I love Mrs Hudson.

_I have been one acquainted with the night._  
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.  
I have outwalked the furthest city light. 

_I have looked down the saddest city lane._  
I have passed by the watchman on his beat  
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.  
\-- **Robert Frost**

* * *

  


Sherlock trades his virginity for an Ecstasy pill at Eton. 

Marijuana and cigarettes are easy to obtain, anything stronger than that and it becomes difficult. But just like in a prison (and Sherlock saw many parallels between Eton and a prison), there are always things around that normally have no business being there. Sherlock likes cigarettes, but dislikes what THC does to his mind.

The boy is a year older than him and evidently more experienced. Sherlock has not had much interest in gaining that kind of experience and whenever hormones struck him, he just took care of it himself. None of the insipid people he knows are worth the time and effort. This boy isn’t really worth it either, but he has something Sherlock wants and he’s lucky the boy is attracted to him (Sherlock deduces the boy will be a closet homosexual later, preferring men but refusing to admit it).

They’re crammed into one of the barely used sheds on the grounds, the greenkeeper at least twenty minutes away and nobody else around. It’s hot -- at least 30°C in the shade -- and Sherlock’s hair sticks to his forehead and the starched collar of his shirt itches against the skin of his neck. The close proximity to the other boy doesn’t make it any better. The boy tries to kiss him, but Sherlock won’t let him. He doesn’t like kissing; too close, too intimate, too personal. Most would argue that letting someone stick their hands down your pants is more personal, but most people are idiots anyway.

The boy is pushing Sherlock’s pants out of the way and reaching for his prick. Having a hand other than his own touching it is strange, if not unpleasant. It makes the encounter less predictable. The boy’s other hand tugs at Sherlock’s wrist with impatience. Oh, right. He undoes buttons and fly, tugs down midnight blue pants and copies the motions. The stimulation isn’t bad but not any better than doing it on his own. Sherlock doesn’t understand what the fuss is about.

The encounter is clumsy and over fast, with Sherlock just barely able to climax. The rush of endorphins is nice, Sherlock thinks and takes his hand out of the other boy’s pants. It’s sticky with semen and Sherlock wrinkles his nose in distaste before wiping it on one of the rags in the shed and fixing his uniform afterwards.

He waits until the other boy has closed his fly, then he holds out his hand, palm up, his look impatient as the boy digs through his pockets.

“If you need any more, you know where to find me,” he says and drops a small plastic bag with a single pill into Sherlock’s hand. His smile is sly; Sherlock feels the need to wipe it off his face. He doesn’t reply, just shoves the bag deep into his pockets and exits the shed.

He finds he doesn’t like Ecstasy very much.

  


* * *

  


Sherlock steadfastly ignores the sleek black Mercedes slithering along the street at his side. He draws the hood of his jacket deeper over his face to block out the tinted windows staring at him accusingly, beckoning him to get in the car.

The sky is overcast: a light drizzle rains down on London and turns the pavement before Sherlock’s feet a darker grey. For good measure, Sherlock winds his scarf tighter around his neck, covers his mouth and half of his nose. If he ignores it long enough, the car might go away. Although he knows it’s wishful thinking. How did the meddling bastard find him so quickly? 

Sherlock thumps his fist against a tinted window. Of course it doesn’t break anything; the glass is armoured. As are the doors and floor pans. Mycroft has built a cage for himself -- and he’d love to trap Sherlock in it, too.

“Piss off!” he yells in frustration and directs a two-fingered salute at the back windows.

It appears Mycroft has had enough: the window rolls down to reveal the biggest nuisance of his life. His brother’s eyebrows are drawn into a frown and his lips set in a firm line. Yes, his patience is wearing thin. Good.

“Sherlock, cease this childish behaviour and get in the car.” Mycroft’s voice is pitched to freeze hell over. Sherlock notices faint rings under Mycroft’s eyes, probably losing sleep over his stupid war in Iraq. Serves him right. At the moment, Sherlock wishes he had a cigarette lit just so he could flick it past Mycroft into the car.

“Didn’t you hear me when I said ‘piss off’ the first time?” Sherlock hisses and narrows his eyes at his brother.

Mycroft is not impressed. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. It’s your choice.”

It’s not so much a choice as it is a threat. Sherlock is sure it means there are enough of Mycroft’s lapdogs around to shove him into the car. They’ve gone through the ordeal before and it’s by far more humiliating to be manhandled into the backseat than to get in on his own. As if to prove his brother right, it also starts to rain in earnest.

Sherlock flings himself into the car, seething with anger. “What the hell do you want?”

“You haven’t paid your rent and were thrown out of your flat over three weeks ago. Surely you didn’t think I wouldn’t react to that?” Mycroft drums his fingers on one of the armrests and licks his lips. He’s irritated. 

Sherlock doesn’t answer -- Mycroft doesn’t really want an answer anyway. It’s not the first time they’re having this conversation.

“If you’re finished stating the obvious, I’d like to leave,” Sherlock says, but doesn’t try to open the door. He knows Mycroft’s driver locked it the moment it slammed shut. 

“You’re living on the streets again,” Mycroft continues, the word streets dripping with so much condescension it’s a marvel his face doesn’t scrunch up in distaste. Only his nose wrinkles, which for Mycroft is about equal to shuddering with disgust.

“Brilliant deduction,” Sherlock shoots back.

“You already lived in a veritable dump for a price nobody could possibly claim to be unable to afford. And yet you chose to be ejected.”

“Playing stupid doesn’t suit you, Mycroft.” Sherlock digs into his pockets to find one of his cigarettes, a bit crumpled as they came without the box. He had traded a coffee for five of them. “Thanks to you, I don’t get to roll around in money the way you do.”

“You would have more than enough money if you acted responsibly. You could have finished your degree and not invest all your money in narcotics.”

“And do a tedious job somewhere in a laboratory or play lapdog for the government like you or Father?” Sherlock laughs without a trace of humour and tries to light his cigarette, only to have Mycroft snatch the lighter from his hands. Ah, the temper shines through. Mentioning Father always works.

“I don’t see how taking drugs and sleeping under a bridge or in an abandoned building is the superior choice,” Mycroft nearly hisses. He’s approaching the danger stage.

“At least it’s my own choice!” Sherlock shoots back. Mycroft in turn becomes very still, all emotion wiped from his face. He lifts a hand and the driver pulls over. Sherlock hears the doors unlock and grabs the handle, eager to get away from his brother’s suffocating presence. 

“Don’t think this conversation is over, Sherlock,” Mycroft says before he can leave. Sherlock holds his brother’s gaze for a few seconds, then exits into the rain, throwing the door closed before Mycroft can say anything else.

  


* * *

  


The brick is rough under his fingers, against the thin cotton of his shirt. Texture slightly different from the ones produced by Britain’s largest supplier of building materials. Interesting. Does he have a sample of it? He can’t remember. The sensation of somebody biting at his neck persists. All teeth present and even -- probably braces in their early teens.

Sherlock’s focus is hazy, his brain feels as if it were wrapped in cotton wool. Not the desired outcome; he prefers substances that sharpen his mind.

Fingers slither under his shirt, one hand grips at his belt. The man probably expects some kind of participation from him. That was the deal. Sherlock might not be a gentleman, but business he can conduct. He tips his head back against the brick wall for better access and clenches his left hand on the man’s biceps. Flannel shirt, medium price range, pattern in red and... dark green? Black? The light is bad at this end of the alley. Somewhere in Lambeth, Sherlock thinks. 

Should he pay a bit more attention to the other man? Focussing is hard, his thoughts are swirling around in an uncoordinated mess. He hates losing control of his mind like this: enough to be frustrated but not enough to not give a damn. This new designer drug he’s offered himself up for doesn’t do what he wants. 

Sherlock is always looking for the best hit possible, but upper-class designer drugs are expensive. Drugs designed for the yuppies of the city are more likely to accelerate, enhance and push: stockbrokers looking for something to see them through fourteen-hour work days; the nouveaux riches wanting to party for twenty-four hours straight; models seeking to limit appetite and fatigue. If you were living under a bridge not knowing where your next meal was coming from, you wouldn’t want something to make you even more aware of it. 

Sherlock occasionally lives under bridges but craves the hits of those dwelling in converted lofts and dining at two-star-restaurants. Ever since Mycroft froze Sherlock’s access to the family money, he has been low on cash. Curse his brother for being the eldest and therefore the sole heir, as per their parents’ decision. 

Fingers are opening his belt buckle, unbuttoning his trousers and slipping below the waistband of his pants. A lightly calloused thumb strokes his protruding hipbone (light work with his hands, fingernails very short, no obvious remnants of oils or dirt, so probably not a machinist -- maybe a painter for his day job.) 

The man murmurs something, probably appreciative from the sound of his voice, but Sherlock doesn’t listen. He has deleted his name already. It doesn’t matter. He should get this over with and hide in his flat until the effects of the drug have worn off. Sherlock grabs the other man by his biceps and reverses their positions. Taking an active part in these encounters is always irritating but with no supplies whatsoever there is little he can do to sate the man’s very narrow definition of what counts as ‘sex.’ His actions have made it clear that it won’t count unless it involves penetrative or oral administrations.

The mechanics are easy. Sherlock loosens the belt, opens the trousers (small speck of off-white wall paint on the right thigh of his jeans -- so he _is_ a painter) and tugs down the pants, freeing the other man’s erection. Without much preamble, he sets to work. Suction, head movement, tongue patterns, that is all there is to it. The noises overhead confirm his competence. Not that Sherlock needs confirmation; and he actually wishes the man wouldn’t continue to remind Sherlock of his presence. He changes the rhythm and pattern, making more deliberate strokes with his tongue along the shaft.

Fingers in his hair, tugging at the curls. Sherlock pushes them off; he hates being touched when he tries to concentrate on a task. A change in breathing pattern, elevated pulse and muscle tremors tell him it’s almost over. Good. The man is already twenty-six seconds over the average it takes Sherlock to bring men to climax through fellatio. 

Texture and bitter taste unpleasant. Sherlock spits the contents of his mouth on the ground, next to the man’s shoes. If the man weren’t a moron, he would get the hint that his presence isn’t as appreciated as he thinks. He murmurs something, but Sherlock doesn’t listen. Instead he wipes his mouth with his forearm and gets back up, dusting gravel from his knees. The other man hasn’t fully gathered himself yet, but Sherlock doesn’t wait; he has done his part.

With a curt nod, he strides out of the alley -- somewhat unsteady because of the drugs -- wanting to get back home as soon as possible for some tea to get rid of the taste on his tongue and to sleep off that failure of an experiment.

  


* * *

  


“Shit, Sherlock,” Lestrade says, pain clear in his eyes, eyebrows drawn into a frown. “Not again.”

***

Lestrade was the first to arrest him. In a raid that Sherlock hadn’t predicted because the Met had changed their pattern. All due to an eager detective sergeant on the brink of making detective inspector. Lestrade had thought Sherlock was just another addict in the wrong place at the wrong time. Having all kinds of insults thrown at him was nothing new either.

The lanky young man started to unnerve Lestrade with a series of razor sharp truths no one could know about -- but most of all it was knowledge someone he had never seen before shouldn’t possess. That he had been married for more than five but less than ten years according to the state of his ring, his wife (or less likely husband with long red hair) being unhappy with his hours but trying to be supportive. Remnants of crayon and Plasticine under his fingernails told Sherlock he had a young child of three to four years. He also had had a lamb curry for lunch.

Lestrade didn’t know whether to be confused or to tell the boy to shut up. He settled for the former -- Sherlock Holmes was in enough trouble as it was. Then he shoved him into the back of a police car and drove him to the station himself. 

Holmes was in a holding cell for all of two hours before a call came in to release him immediately. Apparently orders from very high up. Lestrade knew questioning it would get him nowhere, so he let Sherlock go. It turned out all the charges had been dropped before they even reached the Crown prosecutor. Friends in high places, Lestrade concluded.

Lestrade was also the second, third and fourth to arrest Sherlock. Each time, his heart broke a bit more for the wayward young man.

  


* * *

  


Sherlock overdoses once, late into his habit, when his tolerance is high and he needs more and more to replicate the rush. The mood swings have become worse: he can go from lethargic to erratic in a span of minutes. Eating habits -- if you can call them such -- almost completely abandoned, he has lost so much weight that he had to punch two new holes into his belt with a screwdriver. Sherlock feels watched at all times; not unjustified with Mycroft around, but his brother has been out of the country for two weeks and the minions only watch Sherlock occasionally.

He miscalculates (which will be what irritates him most, later), injects too much into his vein (left-handed because the veins on his left arm have almost all collapsed from his lack of experience at the beginning) and it takes under a minute for him to notice something has gone very wrong: his heart is racing, not in the usual way that has him elated, but at a punishing pace that pounds against his ribcage. Sherlock feels hot, much too hot -- he’s burning up and starts to sweat. As his vision goes blurry, he sinks down to the cheap rug (stains ranging from blood to tinned chicken soup from previous tenants, why did he never take samples?) in his rundown flat, panic starting to swell in his chest. It’s the last thing he needs, but hyperventilation sets in fast. 

He’s going to die.

  


* * *

  


The fire wasn’t part of the plan. Unfortunately, his landlord didn’t care whether or not it was. Now, Sherlock has three days to find a new flat and he finds it irritating.

Montague Street has been ideal. Central London, quick access to all important locations and the rent has been very cheap for the area. The flats in the house are old and in dire need of renovations, which is what makes them cheap in the first place. Hot water in the shower is a bit of a gamble, blown fuses are not a rarity and Sherlock has discovered at least twelve different kinds of mould in his rooms (three of them toxic) but he doesn’t mind the minor inconveniences too much. Location is more important than comfort.

His landlord had threatened before to throw him out for playing the violin at ungodly hours or producing ghastly smells that waver through the halls, but only this time he went through with it. His face was beet-red when he shouted something about nuisances, lunatics and dangers (Sherlock hadn’t listened) in the charred kitchen of Sherlock’s soon-to-be-former flat.

Sherlock’s hands are buried in the pockets of his coat which now vaguely smells of burnt plastic, wood and sulfur. He supposes he will have to have it dry-cleaned to get rid of the odour. Irritating.

Where to get a central London flat within three days? Sherlock doesn’t have too high standards when it comes to his living quarters, but central London is in demand. And ridiculously expensive. Sherlock isn’t poor, but his income from the cases fluctuates, because he often can’t be bothered to charge people.

An idea strikes him when he reaches Russell Square: his former client, Mrs Hudson. The case she had for him two years back was an 8.5: her husband was on death row in Florida.

***

_Sherlock was vaguely bored with the conversation, the old lady on the other end had just launched into an explanation how her husband had ended up on death row. It was likely that she was one of those people who turned a blind eye to evidence and wanted to believe that their partner was fundamentally good. Foolish. She would ask Sherlock to prove his innocence, clear up the “misunderstanding” or some such nonsense._

_Sherlock took a deep breath to launch into a string of “dull, pedestrian, stop bothering me”, but was cut short by the woman’s words:_

_“I want you to make sure he’ll be executed!” Her voice was grim and determined._

_Sherlock’s eyes widened and he sat up straight, the old springs in the sofa protesting the abrupt movement. Oh, that was **interesting**._

_“I know I’m asking a lot, with being in Florida and all,” she went on, her tones soft and pleasant again. “But my friend said you were really clever, so--”_

_“Your address Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said, not caring about the polite drivel. He could be on his way to the airport already._

***

_The case was almost a nine on his scale. It was clever -- Mr Hudson was clever (and rich enough to pay one of those obnoxious, greedy celebrity lawyers). Sherlock had no doubt he was guilty; his job was to find enough evidence to ensure the failure of Mr Hudson’s appeal._

_Sherlock had been in Florida for three days and just reached a breakthrough with the help of a bit of cocaine. Sherlock probably would have come across the solution without it, too, but it might have taken an extra few days. As exciting as the case was, Sherlock didn’t want to stay in Florida longer than necessary. He hated the subtropical climate._

_Mrs Hudson wanted an update, so Sherlock was now standing in her front yard, knocking on the off-white door. It could do with a fresh coat of paint, much like the house itself and the fence surrounding it. The last time it was painted, keeping the local weather in mind, was at least three years ago, so just around the time Mr Hudson had been arrested. He hadn’t been convicted for long; the trial, the preparations before and the procedures afterwards had lasted over two years -- it had been a high profile murder case under intense public scrutiny. Mrs Hudson had had her mind on other things for the last years, and she didn’t really see the house as a home anymore, that much had been clear when Sherlock had first seen her. Sherlock had also deduced that the only reason Mrs Hudson hadn’t divorced her husband was to ensure her inheritance rights; he respected that._

***

_Mrs Hudson fussed over Sherlock and he had no idea why. He hadn’t even been particularly nice to her, but she had taken to him within the first fifteen minutes of meeting._

_She would chide him for saying “indecent” things and order him to eat his biscuits in the same breath. If Sherlock didn’t know any better he’d say Mrs Hudson’s affection confused him -- but he didn’t get confused. Confusion had been deleted years ago._

_“Here, some chicken sandwiches. With the things you do to your body, you could at least eat properly,” she said, smiling and put a platter of sandwiches in front of Sherlock._

_Sherlock raised his eyebrows. He had been careful with his appearance for a while. For some time, he hadn’t cared whether or not he looked like an unwashed, strung-out junkie, but he wasn’t one, so why look like it? Cocaine could be consumed just as well in a dress shirt and pressed trousers. People were stupid, almost nobody who hadn’t known him before would guess he took drugs. So how could Mrs Hudson tell? He wasn’t really high anymore from the cocaine he had injected today._

_“Oh, you young people always think you invented ‘wild’. But we were young once, too. Now eat up!” Mrs Hudson chuckled and waved her hand in a throwaway gesture._

_Sherlock saw no judgement in her eyes. Possibly, he **was** a bit confused._

_Maybe he could call Mycroft and ask him to use his ridiculous power complex to speed up the execution. He knew enough government people in America._

***

After Sherlock had solved the case and even had gone through the humiliation of asking Mycroft for a favour, Mrs Hudson smothered him with almost more affection than he could bear and offered him to come see her if he needed a new flat. She would go back to London where she owned a house with three flats. Sherlock would get a special deal on the rent. Sometimes, she sent tins of biscuits to his flat, with a note that he better ate them all up. Sherlock rarely ever replied, but he always ate the biscuits.

Mrs Hudson’s house is on Baker Street. Right in the centre, an ideal location. And if Mrs Hudson doesn’t have any tenants at the moment, all the better. Although he is sure he could engineer something to make them go away if needed, Sherlock thinks as he waves down a cab and slides into the seat.

Sherlock spends the short ride deducing the cabbie, not finding much of interest: happily married for at least fifteen years _(wears ring on a chain to prevent damage, ring shows signs of age)_ , has a hobby that involves handiwork ( _gardening?_ Sherlock can’t see the dirt under his fingernails from up close, could be dirt or oils), one child and a dog _(possibly Cocker Spaniel, hard to tell from a distance)_

221 Baker Street looks promising, Sherlock concludes as he exits the cab. The building is old but well-maintained. The white coat of paint on the entry level isn’t older than eighteen months and the bricks show the typical residue of a building in the centre of a metropolis. No further damage or extensive wear. There is a cafe out front, useful for the times when Sherlock can’t be bothered to cook or go out for shopping. Which happens rather often.

He rings the doorbell next to the handwritten label “Hudson” and takes a look at the other bells. The one below hasn’t been pressed in years, and neither has there been as label for just as long. Probably a basement flat. Not hard to rent out in London, so there must be some problem with it. Dampness is a common one in basement flats. The top bell has been in use not too long ago, so recent occupation. However, a label is missing. Could be tenants who didn’t bother to put one up, but the empty space has residue of glue _(sellotape, still sticky)_ , so a label peeled off just a short while before. Excellent. Although chasing away other tenants might have been fun.

It occurs to him that he could have called ahead. Most people would have. Then again, Mrs Hudson would have asked him to come over anyway, so it doesn’t matter. Sherlock just skipped a step and it saved himself a tedious phone call.

Mrs Hudson is likely home. Sherlock already deduced in Florida that she does her shopping in the early morning and most of hobbies involve crafts, such as knitting and baking. She is social, but also likes the quiet solitude of her home. Most social engagements of hers are during the weekend, aside from occasional visits from the neighbours. No chronic ailments, so she has no regular doctor’s visits to attend. There is every chance she is currently at home, alone and entertaining herself. Perfect time to pay a visit.

“Oh, my goodness! Sherlock Holmes!” Mrs Hudson exclaims as she appears behind the door.

“Hello, Mrs Hudson,” he says, words muffled by a hug of surprising strength. Why he lets her, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t even let his own mother hug him. Not that his mother is very keen on it in the first place.

“Come in, come in,” she chirps, effectively manhandling him into the house and then her living room. 

Mrs Hudson is delighted to see him; Sherlock can deduce that and it baffles him no less than before. The only thing that’s even more surprising is that he too is glad to see her again. 

The wallpaper and furniture are old-fashioned in colour, pattern and style, lots of pea greens and off-whites, pastel blue and antique pink. The interior hasn’t been modernised since the Seventies, but it’s been cared for well and everything has been high quality when bought. Mrs Hudson probably picked the furnishings and is still satisfied with them.

There’s a platter of biscuits and a cup of tea placed in front of him, accompanied by Mrs Hudson’s chatter of which Sherlock hasn’t heard a word. Something about strawberries. Sherlock doubts he missed anything of importance and just talks over her.

“You said you might have a flat available for rent,” he says and Mrs Hudson’s eyes light up.

***

The flat is perfect. He wants it, no -- _needs_ it. There is only one problem: he can’t afford it.

Mrs Hudson has given him an excellent price. So low that even Sherlock would have felt ashamed to barter any more. From any other tenant, Mrs Hudson could easily ask double, maybe even triple. Many people are desperately looking for accommodation in London and willing to pay outrageous sums.

Still, Baker Street is far out of his price range. Even though his family is rich, most of their assets are properties and to make sure it stays in the family, Mycroft was named sole heir when his mother gave up hope that Sherlock would turn into a “responsible adult.” Dull and boring was more like it.

With his government job on top, Mycroft’s wealth has become obnoxious, much to Mummy’s pride and joy. Sherlock spent the little family money he had mostly on drugs and, after he gave them up, on a new wardrobe. The wardrobe at least has helped finding clients. Nevertheless, he doesn’t have a steady income, so he has to calculate in averages. And he doesn’t like the numbers.

Mrs Hudson suggested he look for a flatmate for 221B, it would be perfect for two people. A flatmate? He and a flatmate?

The idea sounds ludicrous. Not only did Sherlock not want to share his living space with some irritating halfwit, he has enough self-awareness to realise that not many people would choose to live with him. Whenever Sherlock had done it, it had gone spectacularly pear-shaped.

Renting 221C isn’t feasible. Mrs Hudson let him have a look at the basement flat, but even Sherlock with his low accommodation standards had to admit it’s not inhabitable in its current state. Much too damp, the wallpaper is peeling off and the electricity is a nightmare. Mrs Hudson doesn’t have the money for extensive renovations, so she simply doesn’t rent it out.

Sherlock gives a last wave to Mrs Hudson at the door who tells him to call her and gets into a cab. He wants to take a look at the corpse Molly has texted him about yesterday. The one she would let him use to test his theory about bruising patterns. He just needs a quick stop at his still-residence to pick up his riding crop.

The flatmate business stays on his mind. He really wants the flat at Baker Street. Since he was going to St Bart’s anyway, he could start asking around there. Not that he is very optimistic about finding someone who would want him for a flatmate, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask.

He thought of Mike Stamford, one of the teachers there and the kind who knows ‘everybody and their mother’ (as Molly once called it). The man is even tolerable and doesn’t abhor Sherlock as much as most of the staff at Bart’s. 

Maybe Mike Stamford could help.

  


* * *

  


He first notices that he cares about John Watson when the man stands before him covered in Semtex. 

The realisation hits him like a ton of bricks. Sherlock suspects he’s never gone through so much sentiment at once before that day. Frustration at Moriarty’s game, the stab of betrayal when he thought for a split second that his flatmate was the criminal mastermind who was toying with him, the horror that John could die. Like that old woman who said just a word too much. Life without John already sounds bleak, even though they have only known each other for a rather short time. Sherlock doesn’t care half as much that he could die in the explosion, too. Collateral damage. He is surprised that he has actually lived past thirty anyway. 

They get away somehow. In hindsight, Sherlock knows there was much more luck than skill involved, which annoys him. Also, he’s more rattled by it than he should be. John seems to cope well -- but the man was a soldier once and calmest when times were most dangerous.

Sherlock is excited, thrilled even by the existence of Jim Moriarty -- the grandest of all puzzles. But he threatened what Sherlock valued most and Sherlock found himself in limbo. Caught in the strange juxtaposition of playing with fire and knowing he was about to be burned. John is unnerved by Sherlock vibrating with tension and Sherlock in turn fears one of these days, John will just up and leave. It’s the most horrifying thought in the world. Sherlock decides not to examine it too closely.

  


* * *

  


He notices John Watson. He not only acknowledges his existence, but actually notices him. The way John takes his tea ( _no sugar, dash of milk_ ), his preference in literature ( _crime fiction and autobiographies_ ), his favourite films ( _Bond; they’ve become Sherlock’s guilty pleasure_ ), which takeaway meal he likes best ( _Bò lúc lắc, side of Dưa kiệu from one of the Vietnamese restaurants on Kingsland Road_ ). Sherlock knows how John’s stubble grows ( _patchy_ ), how often he gets his hair cut ( _every six weeks_ ) and how long he showers ( _seven to twelve minutes, the latter if he feels indulgent_ ). Sherlock retains all the facts in John’s room in his mind palace. John was recently accorded a spare room in there since the facts don’t seem to stop flowing in and Sherlock does not delete old information about him. He trades in useless facts from elsewhere, like the capital of Venezuela or the currency in China. 

There is data he doesn’t have, which is irritating. How the skin behind John’s ears tastes, for example. Or the texture of his scar. Sherlock hasn’t even seen John’s scar yet, which is a crime in its own right. John’s lips often seem dry and Sherlock wants to test the hypothesis by touching and tasting. How it would feel to grab a fistful of John’s jumper and press him against the living room wall. 

Sherlock doesn’t do anything about it. He has observed John long enough to know that he wouldn’t be adverse to a more physical aspect to their relationship. But love is a dangerous disadvantage. 

He doesn’t want to be vulnerable like that and doesn’t realise he already is.

  


* * *

  


Having sex with John for the first time confuses Sherlock. It defies all previously established parameters and Sherlock can’t wrap his head around it. The occasion already stands out because he’s not high on one substance or another -- what little sex he’s had before was always related to drugs: getting a discount or a taste of something new, lowered inhibitions and the need for stimulation when all his senses were in overdrive. Sherlock never saw the benefit of copulation -- it’s messy and far from the dopamine rush cocaine can produce. But Sherlock shouldn’t be surprised that the addition of John into the equation alters the results in unexpected manners. John already proved that when overthrowing Sherlock’s kissing hypothesis.

Sherlock has never engaged in kissing, except for a few experimental times to establish his hypothesis: kissing is unnecessary and dull. On top of that, it is far too personal and intimate. But kissing John isn’t dull -- far from it. It’s intriguing. As previously expected, John’s lips are often a bit chapped (he tends to forget to use chapstick even though he carries one around) and taste of tea (sometimes coffee). Right after shaving, the skin on John’s cheeks is smooth and Sherlock traces it with his fingers while kissing him. On other days, there is a bit of stubble -- barely visible, but easy to feel. Kissing John doesn’t feel too intimate -- even with tongues and teeth involved. Actually, it doesn’t feel intimate _enough_. 

Sherlock wants to devour John, make him his and ruin him for everyone else forever. 

They take it slow. If Sherlock were one for baseball metaphors, he’d speak in bases. Sherlock explores first slowly, not really sure how to proceed with the tilting of his axis. Contrary to his expectations kissing only offers so much incentive before it ceases to be interesting, with John it never becomes boring. Sherlock decides to study it: he tries different angles, techniques, more tongue, no tongue, teeth, no teeth, in daylight, at night, different locations (sitting room, kitchen, bathroom), before and after meals (favourable results if John had toast with jam or Marmite), clothed, less clothed (has to be abandoned as they were both becoming overexcited). It remains the same: still thrilling and addictive. 

John stops being surprised by Sherlock’s stealth kisses. Sherlock removes their flat from the parameters, kisses John out of the blue in Hyde Park, in a cab, and once drags him around the corner of a level-eight crime scene to crowd John against a wall and snog him. John doesn’t even bat an eyelash when Sherlock scowls at him afterwards. He has probably noticed Sherlock is conducting some sort of experiment. Not much change in the results. If anything, the crime scene made it even more exciting. It has to be John, the only constant in the study. Sherlock ought to conduct a counter study to verify the results, but the thought of kissing someone who isn’t John is disturbing and nauseating. 

Sherlock completes bits of his missing data, he tastes the skin behind John’s ear in an extensive study. He takes samples in the morning, afternoon and evening, and once he sneaks up into John’s room at night -- John nearly jumps out of his bed when Sherlock nibbles at his ear, prepared to pack a punch to the intruder’s face before he realises it’s Sherlock. 

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock! Warn a sleeping man before you do these things!” 

“You not knowing is one of the parameters,” Sherlock answers in his petulant voice and prepares to get up. 

“Bloody hell. Get back here, you tosser.” Sherlock crawls under John’s duvet and conducts a thorough study, then races back down to mull over the results. 

More variables enter: after John has been out for a walk or at the shops, after showering, before showering, before and after shaving, before and after exciting crime scenes. His preliminary favourite is John in the evening, after showering, shaving and a visit at a crime scene -- mixture of adrenaline, aftershave and a heady aroma that seems to be just John’s. John conducts his own counter study in similar places; it sends Sherlock’s thoughts spinning and shivers all over his arms. The intensity is unexpected; Sherlock wants to isolate it, put it in a bottle and inject it.

He records every minute detail of their first sexual encounter on his hard drive. It wouldn’t do to forget any of the touches, smells and tastes. Sherlock lets John unbutton his dove-grey shirt while he steals kisses and nips at John’s lips. John appears to be in favour of small bites. They sit on Sherlock’s bed, John against the headboard and Sherlock in his lap.

Hands are all over Sherlock’s body, but for once he doesn’t want to push them away. It doesn’t feel as intrusive and uncomfortable as it used to. There is an undeniable need to see more, to hear more, to feel more. John’s rooms in his mind palace might grow into a wing at this rate, because he can’t see how he would ever delete data relating to this man (meanwhile, he deletes Mummy’s birthday, the Pythagorean theorem, and the location of Australia). Feeling impatient, Sherlock tugs at John’s jumper. The chuckle he gets in response lights a fire in his stomach.

As John’s shoulder is revealed, Sherlock latches onto the scar; he has been obsessed with it for so long. The bullet didn’t lodge in his body, it went through instead, shot from the back and the upper left. With his fingertips, Sherlock traces the old wound -- the texture is different from the skin around it, not as smooth. Also, the skin seems lighter and stands out quite a bit against the rest. The scar tissue fans out like a spider’s web, signs of an old infection. How easily John could have died back then. So many soldiers die in Afghanistan. Sherlock doesn’t care much about the war, but he looked into the statistics after he learned that John was shot. John was lucky. Sherlock doesn’t even want to think about the fact that he never would have met John if things had turned out for the worst. He kisses the scar and John threads a hand into Sherlock’s hair, lightly scratching at his scalp. If he could, Sherlock would purr like a cat.

John pushes the open shirt from Sherlock’s shoulders, letting it glide down his arm to pool at the elbows. Sherlock can’t remember the last time he let someone unclothe him. John, he would gladly let strip the flesh from his bones. John traces his fingers across Sherlock’s sternum, down his ribs and comes to rest on Sherlock’s stomach where he traces the scar.

“Appendectomy?” he whispers and smiles.

“Yes. When I was eight.”

Sherlock hated the appendectomy. He was in pain and bored from being in hospital. Mycroft came home from school to stay with him since their parents were on a trip halfway around the planet at the time. Sherlock muses that this was one of the last times he was _glad_ to see his brother. 

His thoughts derail when John’s fingertips tease his nipples with a hint of pain. At the moment, he has no idea why he would have ever wanted to ‘take it slow.’ An erection tents his trousers and it’s as if his whole skin itches. John looks smug and Sherlock glares at him in return. He tries to gain some friction by pressing closer to John, but it’s not enough. There might be whimpers coming from his mouth and at some point, John must have taken mercy on him because there’s a hand in his pants and it wraps around his prick and Sherlock thinks it’s one of the best things in the universe -- right up there with cooking eyeballs in acid.

Without lubrication, the strokes are rough, Sherlock can feel the callouses on John’s hands. His fingers dig into John’s shoulder (not the one he was shot in) and when John performs a particularly clever flick of his wrist, Sherlock comes undone above him.

Afterwards, his body feels like lead. Sherlock is exhausted, but the endorphins make him buzz with pleasure. It’s so foreign a feeling to him, he suspects he will be processing it for some time. John pushes a few sweaty locks from Sherlock’s eyes and kisses him -- passionate, gentle and a little self-satisfied This kind of kiss is new. Sherlock files it in the cabinet in John’s mind palace office. 

John’s hand snakes into his own trousers to take care of his personal urges. Sherlock swats it aside and does it himself -- not out of any obligation or agreement, but because he _wants_ to. He closes his fingers around John’s shaft (cataloguing everything he can from touch: length -- slightly above national average; width -- national average; uncircumcised). Much more interesting are the sounds John makes beneath him: groans, sharp intakes of breath, whispers, moans -- Sherlock saves them all on his hard drive, determined to find out if there are more. There have to be more.

After John climaxes, Sherlock contemplates whether he should save some of John’s semen which is sticking to his fingers but postpones taking the sample in favour of resting his head on John’s chest, taking in the smell of sweat, sex and _them_.

With his first pleasurable sex in years, the proverbial floodgates open. Headfirst into a new addiction. Sherlock wants more, needs more -- he wants clarity, the sort only cocaine has been able to bring so far. 

With time, he coaxes John into introducing pain to their repertoire. Not that John needs much persuasion. Careful observation led to the conclusion that John enjoyed domination and painplay. The thrill of being caught between just right and too much, the exercises in endurance -- they help Sherlock achieve new heights of awareness. 

John is the only one he can trust with this, how far to take it and at which pace. His body, mind and soul are safe with him.

  


* * *

  


He should have known. It is like putting the proverbial child in a sweets shop and tell them not to eat anything. Place a dormant addict in a group of active addicts for long enough, copious amounts of his substance of choice within arm’s reach -- it’s a disaster waiting to happen. Sherlock has never played the remorseful ex-addict who devotes his life to overcoming those desires once and for all. He doesn’t regret it. The cocaine has done its job -- sharpened his mind, focussed his attention, reined in in the chaos. His mind palace was built with solid blocks of cocaine. 

And the palace could always do with an additional wing.

The hunt for Moriarty’s web is long and exhausting. The man left barely any traces to follow and Sherlock has to chase whispers of Moriarty hidden under false identities all over the world. His had hoped that Moriarty had concentrated on Europe, but no such luck. He had had his fingers everywhere from Laos to Moscow and Rio de Janeiro. 

As hateful as the thought is, Mycroft is a vital resource. His brother’s name opens doors in Tokyo and New York; equips him with money, papers and weaponry; and unearths leads Sherlock would never have found on his own. Though he would rather cut out his tongue than admit it out loud. He’s also the only one who can keep Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and John safe, should anything go wrong.

One day, Sherlock hears of a Triad gang in Bangkok that has ties to one of Moriarty’s most trusted men but as soon as he gets there, he can’t find anything. He catches wind of a small group laundering money for Moriarty’s operations in Kazakhstan but it takes him nearly a month before he has enough leads to send to Mycroft who then pulls strings until local authorities arrest them. 

Days and weeks turn into months. Sherlock didn’t expect to be away this long. He aches for London and 221B Baker Street. Most nights, he wishes he could just crawl into bed with John (does he even still live there? Sherlock often stops himself from asking Mycroft about John. He thinks he might just falter and run back home if he does). He regrets not having crawled into bed with John as often as he could have, staying up late or not going to sleep at all. He eats frankly outlandish amounts of risotto with asparagus and Parmesan because it’s John’s best dish and Sherlock almost always ate it when John had put a plate of it in front of him. In a bout of sentimentality, he sends Molly an unsigned postcard from Warsaw. When possible, he buys chocolate biscuits and always thinks they’re not as good as Mrs Hudson’s.

It’s when risotto, chocolate biscuits and a dogeared photo in his wallet aren’t enough anymore to keep him pushing through that he goes back to his oldest friend.

  


* * *

  


Sherlock sits in his hotel room in Bogotá and contemplates the items on the table in front of him. Sterilised, disposable syringes and needles, tourniquet still in its shrink-wrapping, empty vial, small bag of cocaine amidst stacks of papers, news clippings, photographs -- many covered in Sherlock’s handwriting in red pen.

He’s been brooding over the clues and evidence for weeks, unable to make sense of it. Everything points to Jim Moriarty having been involved in drug trafficking in South America, Colombia first and foremost but he doesn’t get any further than that. The frustration eats away at him. It’s as if he’s sifting through a ten-thousand piece jigsaw of an undisturbed blue sky.

He bought the cocaine on a whim, readily available at every corner if one knew where to look. It should be able to make him see the pattern, connect the dots and solve the mystery. John isn’t here to be his conductor of light, neither is his violin, and cocaine used to do the job just fine before. Sherlock is reluctant to go back to it -- not that he has many regrets, but towards the end of his last bout of using, the negatives started to outweigh the positive. He hit rock bottom with the overdose. If Lestrade hadn’t stopped by to berate Sherlock for his behaviour at the crime scene, he would have died. Not that health concerns are usually at the forefront of his mind. Some sort of Pavlovian reaction to John’s badgering whenever Sherlock was too laissez-faire about health risks and danger. It's pot and kettle, really, Sherlock thinks; John did (maybe still does?) enough dangerous things himself. But John is a compulsive caretaker, he needs someone to look after to function (and not notice how screwed up he is himself). Sherlock provided John with a steady supply of internal and external damage.

Sherlock closes his eyes and leans back on the battered sofa, a pea-green memorial to the seventies. If only John were here to bring him focus and order; he is the perfect drug -- much like cocaine, but without the side effects. This is why he avoids touches from and dependency on other people: they may be gone one day and he is left craving.

Sherlock tries to picture John’s reaction to finding out about the cocaine. Not favourable, that much is certain. John is a doctor with an alcoholic sister. He hates his sister’s addiction, one of the main reasons they don’t get along. John would _not_ live with an active drug-user. 

However, Sherlock has learnt from the past: he would never use cocaine unless there was a purpose for it; he's not just interested in the hit. He thinks of it as a supplement: boring people take magnesium, he takes cocaine. He has an engaging puzzle on his hands -- _the_ puzzle. With so much stimulation, his brain won’t become reliant on the substance. Only clarity, not function.

If it helps him solve this mystery faster, why shouldn’t he use all available resources? The faster Moriarty’s empire crumbles and turns to dust, the quicker they’re all going to be safe. And even if he ends up with a bullet in his head, he doesn’t want it to be out of false morality. 

Sherlock gets up to dig in his bag. He finds the pack of cigarette filters (he has taken to rolling his own cigarettes lately) and flings it on the table before moving to the tiny bathroom with the flickering lightbulb. A pack of razor blades (not the five-blade-with-soothing-gel nonsense), hand mirror and he’s almost good to go. Sherlock takes the spoon from the tray on the table by the entrance as well. He doesn’t plan on cooking the solution, but the spoon makes filling the syringe easier.

Back on the sofa, muscle memory kicks in. With his lighter, he heats the spoon’s handle to facilitate bending it until it’s standing up in a graceful arch. He opens the bag and tastes the product, slight numbness on this tongue but nothing tastes off. Exact measuring is impossible and unnecessary, he can still tell how much he’ll need for his preferred seven-percent-solution. Sherlock pours the powder onto the hand mirror and cut with the blade, a leftover ritual from the days when he snorted it. It doesn’t serve much purpose if you inject it, but the repetitive movement calms Sherlock’s almost-tremor in his hands and gets his heartbeat back under control ( _excitement, fear, uncertainty, greeting an old friend_ ). 

When the cocaine is near dust Sherlock moves back to the bath to fill the vial with water; the right amount still comes to him naturally. Back to the sofa, cocaine transferred into the water. Sherlock puts his thumb on the opening and shakes the contents to dissolve the drug -- very few particles remain. Good. His mouth runs dry as he lifts his thumb from the vial, the tip glistening with a few drops of the cocaine solution. Carefully, he sticks the digit in his mouth, sucks off the liquid (once again light numbness on his tongue). For a moment, he revels in the familiarity, the nostalgia of it -- it really is like greeting an old friend.

The old air conditioning unit in his room whirrs in the background, not really cooling the 120 square feet of his temporary home, but Sherlock commends the owner’s effort to lie to his customers. 

He pours the solution into the spoon, drops in one of the filters (not that it erases the chances of cotton fever, but he really doesn’t trust the cotton pads in the bathroom dispenser) and watches it soak up the cocaine, filtering the particles. With a deep breath, he unwraps the syringe and needle, places the tip against the filter and slowly draws up the liquid. He holds the filled syringe against the light falling in through the windows and taps his fingers against it to eliminate the bubbles before putting it back on the table. Tourniquet next, around his right arm. Looking for veins in his left would take longer than he would like. Balling his hand into a fist, he finds one quickly, tapping against the crook of his elbow. Sherlock hesitates for a second as he picks up the syringe, still unsure if it’s really the right choice. It probably isn’t, but it’s the best one he can come up with. He stopped once before, he can do it again if he has to.

He licks his lips, places the needle against his skin and pushes in. Drawing the plunger back a bit, bringing a swirl of red with it that confirms he really caught a vein. He could still back out, but doesn’t want to. Not anymore. Sherlock presses the plunger fast, then pulls the needle back out, throws it on the table and releases the tourniquet. The drug travels fast to its destination, Sherlock can feel the heat crawl towards his heart before it hits.

For a second, he sits back and closes his eyes until his brain accelerates to maximum speed. He flings his eyes open and for the first time in months he _sees._

  


* * *

  


He nearly had him. He came so close. So very close. Sherlock lies in a bathtub filled with tepid water in the tiny but expensive (and they say prices in London are ridiculous) one-bedroom flat in Luxembourg. He must have been lying here for at least an hour, maybe longer -- if he cared, he could deduce it from the wrinkles on his fingertips. But he doesn’t care.

Four months. He wasted four months to get close enough to the last pillar of Moriarty’s empire. Four months to tear it down and then triumphantly walk home through the rubble. But the pillar skipped away into the sunset right before his eyes. Sebastian Moran. _Colonel_ Sebastian Moran. Jim Moriarty’s second, his right hand, his favourite lapdog (more of a Doberman than a Chihuahua though). Intelligent, skilled, and downright dangerous. You have to be well-trained to fly under Sherlock’s _and_ Mycroft’s radar for almost two years. Moran was a whisper at first, almost as elusive as Moriarty -- Sherlock was almost convinced Moran was a straw man (or woman). But the whispers persisted, and Mycroft’s team uncovered a first name somehow. It took months to turn the man into a tangible concept. Unlike Jim Moriarty, he wants to remain hidden, doesn’t have his boss’ rampant narcissistic streak. 

When finally attached a face to the name, Sherlock vibrated with tension. Only this man stood between him and London, 221B and John. 

Sherlock studied the file he received from Mycroft religiously. Colonel Sebastian Moran, formerly of the British Army. Dishonourably discharged in 2004 (reasons blacked out). Excellent marksman, trained sniper, ruthless commander. No known relatives. Completely disappeared from the face of the earth in 2006. Sherlock spent hours staring at the photograph attached: an official army photo from late 2003. Green eyes, blonde hair cut extremely short, prominent jaw with darker blonde stubble. A scar runs through his left eyebrow. By Sherlock’s estimate he is at least six foot three tall, possibly even six five. 

Once Sherlock had a lead on him, he felt like Christmas came early. Word had it that Moran was planning a trip to Luxembourg to secure some financial matters. A country well known for its banking services catering to wealthy clientele but lower on the radar than Switzerland, Liechtenstein or the Cayman Islands. Less suspicious. A clever choice. 

Sherlock hopped onto a plane in Budapest and arrived at the country’s only international airport. He posed as a Frenchman working in the capital. He could have used his German identity, too but while his French is fluent and accent-free, his German isn’t. Might be suspicious in a country where German is an official language. 

He had an estimated forty-two hours before Moran would arrive and hopefully walk straight into his demise. Success was within his reach; he could almost taste it. For the first time in over a year, Sherlock bought himself a treat -- a piece of Quetschentaart at a boulangerie on Rue de Bonnevoie and enjoyed it with a dollop of whipped cream and a sprinkle of sugar in his temporary quarters. Just to taunt Mycroft, Sherlock emailed him a picture of the cake. It’s childish, but he hadn’t been able to properly tease Mycroft for far too long. 

Sometime after that, everything went wrong. 

Moran entered the country much sooner than expected, passing through undetected even with Mycroft’s staff watching. Sherlock had chosen to scour the bank Moran is supposed to have dealings with, feigning interest in seeking to hide his earnings from the French tax office. 

As luck had it, Moran was crossing the lobby when Sherlock exited the lift. He immediately spotted the colonel, but couldn’t get back into the lift before Moran saw him as well; the man’s instincts were in excellent shape. Moran didn’t waste time,. He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, spun around on his heel and strode back towards the doors without appearing too hurried to the bystanders. He stopped at the entrance and leaned towards the security guards, saying something to them that made them look at Sherlock who was half hidden behind the fountain in the foyer. The bulky men approached Sherlock, Moran vanishing behind them out the door. The guards held Sherlock back for some reason he can’t remember now. They were talking to him in Luxembourgish, French, German and English but Sherlock doesn’t hear a word. It all blends together from the point when he saw Moran in the flesh for the first time. Sherlock can only remember the cold clenching at his heart after he managed to escape the security guards’ clutches to discover that Moran used the time to disappear. 

Since then, he's been awake for two days, conducting a frantic search, but Sebastian Moran is nowhere to be found. Chances are that he has long since left the country (easy when the whole country is only 300 square miles bigger than Greater London). 

Sherlock takes the razor from the edge of the bathtub. Its edge gleams in the low bathroom lights. Disappointment, anger and homesickness gnaw at his heart. So stupid. So careless. Moran is aware now that Sherlock is alive and hunting him and Sherlock is back to square one. How long now before he can go home? If he ever could. 

The chances of him dying -- most likely at Moran’s hand -- have risen by forty-three in the last forty-eight hours. Almost three years of hunting could be undone by a stupid mistake. Almost three years since Lestrade last patted his shoulder, Mrs Hudson gave him a hug or John touched his bare skin.

Sherlock has no idea what or how John is doing. After he allowed himself that last glance at the cemetery, Sherlock hasn’t inquired after him. Mycroft is only allowed to give him news if anything grave happens. No news amounts to good news. Fear nags at Sherlock’s mind. What if John isn’t in 221B, not in London, anymore? What if he’s married some nice, boring woman and has two point five children? What if he’s forgotten about Sherlock, who’s supposed to be little more than a skeleton by now? He surely feels like one.

No. _No._ Sherlock refuses to think about that. John is his. He promised and John doesn’t break promises. If there was one truth in the universe, it was John Watson’s. 

Sherlock hardly feels the splitting of flesh on the underside of his upper arm -- the blade is extremely sharp. He watches the blood in rapt fascination, running down in a sluggish scarlet trickle, away from the cut. It’s not superficial, but not deep enough to be worrisome. Seconds or minutes later, Sherlock can’t recall how long, he stares at his work. He has carved a “J” into his arm and can’t remember doing it or making the decision to. 

More blood trickles down, collects at the lowest point before dripping into the water and forming a tiny cloud of red. Sherlock continues to stare at the letter, maybe two inches long. The cut burns just a little, almost the same pleasant way as when John does it. John with his medical knowledge, who knows enough about bloodflow and tissue to end Sherlock’s life in seconds. Sherlock finds being at John’s mercy exhilarating. He inclines his head and lets his tongue trail the edges of the, the metallic tang on his tongue urging him to close his eyes and enjoy. John’s blood is better but his own from the cut made for John is all he has at the moment. 

Sherlock continues to lie still in the tub, gaze following the slowing trickle from the bleeding “J”, turning the sharp letter into a blurred shape in deep red. The cut will heal in a few days; it might leave a faint scar -- hopefully. It’s the closest he can get to a permanent imprint of John, one he can take to the grave if push comes to shove.

Maybe John will let him cut an “S” into his body once he comes home. If he comes home.

  


* * *

  


The last week before his return is a blur. Mycroft’s lackeys manage to find a picture of Moran entering the UK. On the flight back home. Sherlock thinks that Sebastian Moran didn't so much get caught on camera as he let himself be caught. The colonel is much too elusive to make a mistake like that, considering it took them months to find out he was real at all. He is sending Sherlock a message. Or rather a final warning: Sherlock doesn’t have any evidence but Moran is likely one of the snipers who were set on John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. 

The disaster in Luxembourg was weeks ago; Sherlock fell into a slump of combined apathy and cocaine high, tacking the walls with Morans previous movements and pictures. Sherlock didn’t do much more than stare at it, no new clues to be gained. Only Mycroft’s call with the words “He entered the United Kingdom via Glasgow six hours ago” makes him move. Sherlock knows it’s a trap. Moran is trying to lure him out by reviving the threat. Years ago, Sherlock would have refused to take such obvious bait, but he can’t be bothered to care about a clever delivery. His friends’ lives are at stake. _John’s_ life is at stake. 

A world without John Watson in it is not an option.

He is tired of playing cat and mouse and has no idea anymore whether he is the hunter or the prey.

The first time he sees John after he’s returned is a heady mixture of anger and adrenaline. John is so shocked upon seeing Sherlock, he goes white as a sheet and nearly vomits into Mrs Hudson’s umbrella stand by the door. He staggers back to sit on the stairs, Sherlock follows him inside, for once not saying anything. Sherlock is desperate to touch John, _his_ John, but doesn’t dare. John regains the ability to stand and whispers Sherlock’s name, the most painful and yet most beautiful sound Sherlock has ever heard. 

He can read the upcoming punch in the tension in John’s body and doesn’t try to stop it. If he has ever earned a punch, this one would be it. A faint trail of blood runs from Sherlock’s nose as he picks himself up, just in time to catch John in his arms like a marionette cut from its strings. The anger was apparently the only thing keeping him upright. For several minutes, they cling to each other.

They come close to dying at Moran’s hands, the only thing saving Sherlock from a bullet to the brain being John’s steady hand and the team of policemen Mycroft had dispatched. Lestrade looks as if he’s ready to have a heart attack when he sees Sherlock. For a second, Sherlock thinks Lestrade is going to punch him as well, before he’s enveloped in a crushing hug (Sherlock would have found a punch much easier to deal with) and treated to a string of Lestrade’s favourite cuss words for him. Sherlock pets Lestrade’s shoulder, feeling awkward and watching John, who looks exhausted (mentally more than physically), but has a small smile playing at his lips. 

Lestrade only lets them go with a promise to see him first thing in the morning and then they’re back at Baker Street, the flat silent and too tidy for Sherlock’s taste. John has been staying but not _living_ there -- it looks like a cleaned-up shrine to Sherlock. His chemistry equipment is missing, but his insect collections are now mounted on the wall over the mantle. The skull still rests on it (now wearing the _hideous_ hat, but the framed picture next to it is new -- a photograph of Sherlock in what John once dubbed his ‘thinking pose’: reclined on the sofa, fingers steepled under his chin and his gaze fixed on the windows (judging from the angle). Sherlock didn’t even know the picture existed. He can feel John’s eyes boring into his back.

“John...” Sherlock starts but doesn’t finish because he is propelled into the wall by John’s body.

“You utter bastard,” John hisses and crushes his lips against Sherlock’s.

It’s desperate and not gentle, which is the last thing Sherlock would be able to take at the moment. He needs John; he needs John to be angry with him because Sherlock doesn’t have the power to be angry at himself anymore. Sherlock needs John to wipe his mind clean, format the hard drive and reinstall the operating system that is currently riddled with viruses and fragmented beyond saving. 

When Sherlock begs John for the pain, John hesitates. He wants it as much as Sherlock, but knows that he shouldn’t do it with so much anger bottled up inside. Sherlock continues to wear John’s reluctance down, knowing that John would never ignore a safeword, no matter how angry he was. 

Once he finally caves, he orders Sherlock to the upstairs bedroom to undress himself and wait. Sherlock is strung as tightly as his violin bow, can’t get out of his clothing fast enough. Three years without touching John -- three years of not knowing whether he would ever get to do it again. The thought alone makes his cock strain against his pants. Sherlock removes the final piece of clothing in haste and gets on the bed before John enters, riding crop and old army knife in his left hand. The air sticks in Sherlock’s throat, anticipation ready to burst out of him, but he doesn’t say a word out of fear that if he says the wrong thing, John might remember how ill-advised this encounter is. 

And if John stops, Sherlock doesn't know what he'd do -- he doesn't think he'd survive it.

Sherlock expects to be bound, but John wants an exercise in discipline and orders him to hold onto the headboard and not let go. He scurries to comply, licking his lips in anticipation and grabbing the wood above him until his fingers hurt. The headboard is the only thing anchoring him to earth. That and watching John strip off his jumper, but not more. In the last three years, John has gained a few pounds (lack of exercise) but is still in much better shape than most of his age group. As he looks at Sherlock on his bed (and Sherlock feels stripped much more than just to his skin), his eyes are still hard and angry, though his anger is controlled and hopefully soon channelled into quick flicks with a crop and the slither of a blade against pale skin. He asks for the safewords and Sherlock has to find his voice again before he can answer (yellow and red -- the former for ‘dangerous’ and the latter for ‘stop’ -- John prefers his safewords to be easy and precise).

John steps forward to the foot of the bed, riding crop in hand and Sherlock’s world narrows down to exquisite pain: his partner’s knowledge of anatomy helps him keep the pain just this side of ‘bearable’ and he never strikes hard enough to draw blood. That is going to be the blade’s duty. 

A moan erupts from Sherlock’s mouth when the crop leaves a welt across his inner thigh and he almost lets go of the headboard. 

Every strike with the crop makes the hard drive in his mind skip for a blinding moment of pain dissolving into pleasure. John speaks words but Sherlock can’t seem to string them together into sentences. It doesn’t matter, the sound of John’s voice is enough.

When John casts aside the crop, Sherlock’s chest is heaving from the thrum of arousal and the effort to follow John’s instructions. A faint sheen of sweat sends goosebumps across his body and makes locks of hair stick to his forehead and neck. John nudges Sherlock’s legs apart and kneels between his thighs and unclasps the knife. The light of the evening sun falling in through the window dyes the blade a vibrant orange and Sherlock can’t help but lick his lips. He still hasn’t dared to break his silence, afraid to undo the spell. If John decides to stop now, Sherlock would probably empty a syringe into his bloodstream within the next ten minutes to reach oblivion. 

Luckily, John seems to need it as much as he does and throws caution out the window. Just as well that he doesn’t ask whether Sherlock contracted an illness during his abscence; at this stage, Sherlock would lie without hesitation. He is reasonably sure he hasn’t picked up any strange viruses or other illnesses -- he had all kinds of vaccinations before his trips and he was never stupid enough to use needles twice or share them. Safe and sane still doesn’t apply to what he and John are doing right now, but Sherlock considers these words to be synonyms of “boring” anyway. 

Cold steel presses against his throat, not enough to cut, but it would if Sherlock moved. His heart hammers in his chest, instinctual need for survival setting in, even with the knowledge that John has no plans to kill him. Sherlock’s erection grows, the tip glistening with the first signs of pre-ejaculate. John drags a finger along the shaft, almost making Sherlock flinch.

“John,” Sherlock whispers, unable to remain mute any longer.

John removes the blade from Sherlock’s throat and for a second, Sherlock thinks John is going to stop -- fear welling up before he feels the sharp burn of a blade being drawn through the skin of his biceps. Just enough to make the crimson of his blood appear at the surface. The instant it happens, Sherlock’s mind goes blank, his mind becomes a vast, empty space. 

It’s a high not even cocaine can produce. 

A moan escapes him upon the second cut, a few inches below the first. Sherlock wants to fist the sheets, but he hasn’t been given permission to let go. He breathes in John’s scent, a combination of tea leaves, laundry detergent and aftershave (Diesel’s _Only the Brave_ , present from Harry). He blanks out with the next cut and descends into a state of mind where he can only focus on pain, pleasure and John. 

When he surfaces again, his upper arms, chest and thighs are striped with thin ribbons of blood, a delicious burn and ache deep in his bones. Sherlock is panting and the erection between his legs is begging for attention. The muscles in his arms start to protest against holding onto the headboard for so long -- he can’t remember the last time he felt this good. 

“John, please,” he whispers, voice hoarse. He needs release. Needs to go higher, faster, harder.

The wait only takes seconds, but feels like hours. 

Sherlock hears the sound of a bottle cap being opened. There are slick fingers at his entrance, pressing into him. The stretch and burn is almost like a new experience after so long. John avoids all the places and movements that would get him off -- Sherlock is already teetering on the edge. John doesn’t take long; the fingers withdraw fast to work on John getting ready, judging by the sound of more lubricant being squeezed out of the bottle and the rustle of fabric and a zipper.

“Turn around. On your knees,” John commands and Sherlock snaps out of his haze long enough to scramble into position. 

The cuts on his arms and thighs stretch and start to burn anew -- Sherlock bites his lower lip to contain the sounds that threaten to escape him. John wraps an arm around his waist and drags him back until he’s sitting in John’s lap, his naked back against John’s soft shirt. John nuzzles at Sherlock’s vertebrae and enters him without much preamble. Throwing his head back against John’s shoulder, Sherlock bares his throat and groans. He won’t last very long -- not with John’s hand closed around his prick and his mouth biting at the column of Sherlock’s throat. Only now does he truly realise how much he missed John, how incomplete he has been for the last three years.

“I...” he whimpers, hitching breath matching John’s thrusts.

Picking up speed, John grabs Sherlock’s jaw and draws his head back again, licking at one of the small cuts he left on the throat. He has the one last thought -- John, taking in his blood, a bit of Sherlock now in John’s system -- before his mind whites out into complete silence and he comes into John’s hand.

Sherlock sags against John, his mind caught up in white noise and nothing else. John finishes shortly after, Sherlock’s name on his lips and holds him against his chest for a few more seconds before he guides Sherlock down to the mattress.

Sherlock is covered in blood, sweat and semen and he couldn’t care less. John moves around on the mattress, preparing to get up. He catches John’s wrist in a vice grip -- he can’t leave, not when Sherlock has just come back --

“I’m just going to get some antiseptic and a towel. Then we’ll talk,” John murmurs and presses a kiss to Sherlock’s lips. His anger hasn’t dissipated, that’s obvious from his body language. But as long as John’s not going to leave, he will talk as much as John needs to. Later.

Sherlock lets go of John’s wrist and sinks back into the pillows closing his eyes. In the background, his brain comes back online, hard drive formatted and recovering bit by bit.

  


* * *

  


“Sherlock, I just want to help. You can’t keep doing this. How do you think John will react?”

Lestrade shows all the signs of discomfort. He twists the phantom of his wedding band with the thumb and index finger of his right hand. A stubborn frown as he leans back in his chair. One of his better dress shirts; he’s taking Molly out for dinner. Sherlock hopes the relationship with Lestrade will finally rid Molly of her infatuation with Sherlock. She’s made remarkable progress in the last three and a half years, doesn’t let Sherlock walk all over her anymore. It makes her harder to manipulate, but Sherlock respects Molly now. Lestrade knows she isn’t completely over Sherlock, but is hoping she will get there eventually. 

Sherlock doesn’t tell Lestrade there is a seventy-eight percent chance she will abandon her hopes for Sherlock in the next three months. Ninety-four percent in the next five months. Lestrade doesn’t deserve good news for his meddling.

“John doesn’t know,” Sherlock murmurs and keeps reading the weather reports for Bristol on his phone.

“Yeah, how long do you think it will stay that way? He’s just still too glad that you’re not dead to notice there is something wrong.” Lestrade abandons twisting his fingers in favour of crossing his arms.

“If you keep your mouth shut--” Sherlock starts, glaring at Lestrade before being cut off.

“No,” Lestrade says and shakes his head. “I am not watching you go down that road again. You’re not as bad off as last time and that’s the only reason John hasn’t picked up on it.”

It’s a disadvantage that Lestrade knows exactly what Sherlock is like when he’s on drugs. Too much experience with it to miss the subtle signs not even Sherlock can cover up. Of all the things Lestrade could be perceptive about, he has to make it Sherlock.

“Mind your own business,” Sherlock hisses and gets up. In his head, he gears up a litany about Lestrade’s self-consciousness, the ongoing fight with his ex-wife over custody, the illness of his father.

Lestrade sighs, looking defeated. “Sherlock, you _are_ my business. It became my business when you almost died on me from that overdose. And I’m telling you to stop so you don’t lose everything you give a toss about. John won’t stay if you don’t stop. I’m giving you a last chance to get clean before I have to ban you from crime scenes again.”

“What?”

“No crime scenes when you’re using. That rule hasn’t changed.”

Sherlock knows that tone -- it always comes out when Lestrade is being particularly hard-headed. Most of the time, the man is putty in his hands: too set on solving cases to stop Sherlock from walking all over him. With the drugs, there’s never been room for negotiation. Bloody morals. 

“You need me,” Sherlock tries, crossing his arms and standing in the doorway.

“We solved crimes for three years without you and we can do it again. Consider yourself lucky I’m not arresting you on the spot.”

Sherlock has enough of this farce and leaves Lestrade’s office in the most dramatic manner he can conjure up without slamming the door. 

He walks to St James Park close by and sinks onto a bench a good distance from the water where dense clusters of tourists and Londoners are feeding the ducks. The weather is good for the time of the year: cold but the sun is shining and has lured people outdoors. Sherlock hopes for an increase in crime. Other than Christmas, winter is a bit dire when it comes to interesting cases. Not that he’ll profit from more crimes if Lestrade doesn’t call him in -- and the man is stubborn enough to stick to his word. He didn’t budge last time, which was part of the reason Sherlock stopped the cocaine. If Lestrade doesn’t call, John will notice and become suspicious. And if John isn’t in a state of blissful ignorance, he is going to pick up on the signs. Idiot he may be sometimes, but he is a very good doctor.

He has to tell him. Before Lestrade sweeps in and takes matters into his own hands. John tolerates a lot from Sherlock but he’s not sure if John will forgive another large-scale deceit. For the time being, Sherlock only indulges occasionally, but it’s increasing. The old life in London with its regular cases isn’t as adrenalin-fuelled as hunting after a web of criminals all over the world. The need to seek stimulation for his brain is bigger in London. Sherlock knows it’s a dangerous gamble.

He conceals it well, doesn’t leave any drug paraphernalia lying around and the signs of agitation that set in when he hasn’t taken anything for a week or so don’t differ much from the way he usually expresses his frustration. Sherlock even moves the injection sites around: one day it’s the groin, the next time a foot or his hand. John may be closely acquaintanced with every square inch of Sherlock’s body, but small, healed-over pricks where a needle once breached skin are hard to find if one isn’t looking for them. 

Unfortunately, Lestrade has experience. Ever since the overdose, Sherlock can feel Lestrade scanning him for signs of a relapse. The fabricated drug busts for withheld evidence also serve to bring peace to the detective inspector’s mind. Not that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to hide his drugs from the police -- if Lestrade combed the flat (with drugs in it) today, he wouldn’t find anything. 

Mycroft not knowing is sheer luck. Since Moran’s “elimination”, Sherlock’s surveillance has been downgraded and his brother has been out of the country for weeks (probably cleaning up after Sherlock’s operations with his diplomatic chess games). He has no illusions about being able to fool Mycroft. If his brother looked properly, he would know within seconds (bloody irritating, that). And if Lestrade called Mycroft, an intervention would be guaranteed. 

It is impossible to just wait and sit it out this time. If John finds out from anyone other than Sherlock himself, he will leave. John is still working on conquering his anger over the fake death. The only reason he hasn’t packed his things and left is because Moriarty blackmailed Sherlock with his, Lestrade’s and Mrs Hudson’s life. But making him see the necessity of Sherlock turning to cocaine to focus his mind would be impossible. John refuses the premise of the theory. Sherlock has to concede that no one with an average mind would be able to understand his logic -- even Mycroft only grasps it in an abstract sense.

He is at a crossroads. It seems simple, deciding which direction to go, but it isn’t.

  


* * *

  


Sherlock doesn’t exactly talk to John about the cocaine. He leaves his syringes, the tourniquet and the vial with the rest of his supply on the kitchen table and waits for John to find it in the morning. Right now, it’s four a.m. and John won’t be up for another three hours at least. He sleeps less when Sherlock isn’t in bed with him.

Sherlock has banked the fire and sits in his chair, fiddling with the sash of his robe. Reruns of the afternoon programmes are running on the telly but he doesn’t feel like deducing the women and men in the talk show. He would like to play his violin but doesn’t. Normally, he has no qualms about waking John with his playing, but he feels strangely torn between wanting John to wake up immediately and hoping he’ll sleep another twelve hours. 

Sherlock is vibrating with tension, tempted to relieve it with the remnants of the cocaine. Greeting John with his drug utensils while high might be a bad idea though. Cigarettes, maybe. 

Sherlock jumps out of his chair and fishes the packet of tobacco out of his coat pocket. It’s empty. Frustrated, Sherlock hurls the empty pouch into the small bin next to the coat rack and strides into the kitchen. Tea then. He needs _some_ sort of stimulant. 

Mug (check if it’s actually clean), tea bag (PG Tips), hot water, leave to steep for a few minutes, milk (the one he’s not cultivating bacteria in), sugar (not to be mistaken with the barium nitrate in the other container), stir and back to the armchair. He grabs his laptop and proceeds to find the vilest documentary available about decomposition. This at least proves interesting enough that he doesn’t notice the passage of time until the bedroom door opens with its usual low creaking. John, clad in boxer briefs and an old t-shirt, emerges, rubbing his eyes.

“Did you sleep at all?” he murmurs and rubs his hands through his hair.

Sherlock doesn’t answer, keeps staring at the screen where the body of a middle-aged man is being devoured by an array of maggots. His stomach feels about the same. 

He hears John halting on his way to the kettle. The following silence is dense and heavy. Sherlock can visualise all the emotions crossing John’s face -- it’s so expressive that he still hasn’t catalogued them all. The likely order being puzzlement, suspicion, realisation, confusion and disappointment.

“Sherlock...” John starts, but doesn’t finish.

Sherlock closes his eyes for a second, pauses the video and looks at John -- disappointment, as expected. Lips pressed together, the lines around his eyes deepened, arms crossed.

“The answers to your questions are yes. But I’m not back to habitual use.” He leaves the _yet_ unspoken.

“How long?” John’s voice sounds detached, bare of emotion. The tone unsettles Sherlock because it’s so unlike John.

“Twelve months.” Sherlock traces the inside of his lower lip with his tongue. A nervous habit of his.

“So, when you were...”, John replaces the end of the sentence with a gesture. He has trouble giving Sherlock’s absence a name, even after six months.

Sherlock nods. Words are failing him, choked by the fear of John leaving forever and taking Sherlock’s heart with him. He watches John release a breath, his left hand scrubbing over his face.

“Right. I’ll just--” John says and turns back to the door.

“John.” For once, Sherlock doesn’t know how to explain himself. He hears the impending panic in his own voice and snaps his jaw shut. He wouldn’t beg. Digging his fingers into the armrests, he wills himself to stay put. Neither he nor John would appreciate an undignified display of weakness and fear.

John turns back around, having apparently noticed the panicked tone and lets his eyes rest on Sherlock. Realisation sweeps over him, showing in a widening of the eyes and a barely mouthed ‘oh’.

“Sherlock, I’m not leaving,” he says and walks over to Sherlock’s chair. John’s callused fingers cover the side of Sherlock’s throat. “I won’t tolerate you taking cocaine, but if you really want to quit, we can work this out.”

John’s hand tightens lightly around Sherlock’s throat, restricting his airflow enough to be noticeable. Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed, his heartbeat stopping for a second before picking up its elevated rate again -- excitement, not panic. 

“Yes,” he whispers.

With John, he can do this. With John, he won’t crash and burn. That’s how it has always worked: Sherlock has his foot on the accelerator and John his hands on the wheel.  



End file.
